Rummaging For Answers
by DarthAbby
Summary: What if John Watson never met Sherlock Holmes? And what does that have to do with a man called the Doctor and the world's only consulting criminal? "What?" "Oh, it's - it's nothing, I just...I thought I saw something on your back." Oneshot for now, inspired by a tumblr post


**Based on a tumblr post, link on my profile. I own nothing.**

**000**

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

It's a simple question, nearly rhetorical, and John is confused when it's answered by a small laugh.

"What's so funny?" he asked his old friend.

"Nothing, just an old joke that came to mind."

He doesn't ask what the joke is – probably something about flatmates, something he's not interested in hearing at the moment. He looks away from Stamford as a tall man in a large trench coat runs by, some sort of device in his hand beeping madly.

"What's his problem?" John wonders idly, turning back to Stamford, who has a confused look on his face. "What?"

"Oh, it's – it's nothing, I just," he craned his neck a little, as though trying to see over John's shoulder. "I thought I saw something on your back."

000

That was the first time it happened, but Lord knows it wasn't the last. John is followed by strange looks, sometimes bordering on horrified, and the same words – _There's something on your back! _– for weeks. But every time he contorts himself tying to see his own shoulder blades in the mirror, there's nothing there. He tries to let it go, as there are more important things to think about. His limp is getting more pronounced. He's forgetting to eat, something the doctor in him shouts about, but the soldier in him grumbles about being 'fine' and 'tough'.

He barely even pays attention to the string of serial suicides, but one name in particular catches his attention. _Sherlock Holmes_. Bit of an odd name, maybe that's why it got lodged in John's brain.

It's about three weeks after the small article in the paper announcing the death of the 'consulting detective' when John is walking back from his therapist's office and sees an old fashioned phone box. Wooden, painted a blue that's both deep and bright at the same time, and clearly having seen better days. The lighted words at the top announce '_Police Public Call Box_' and John gives a faint smile at the dilapidated, yet strangely beautiful old relic.

"John!" A hand clamps down on his shoulder without warning and he's being steered towards the box. "John Watson!"

He tries to resist, but between the strength in the stranger's hand and his own lack from weeks of skipping meals, he's hardly in fighting shape. "Who are you?" he demands.

"The Doctor," the man answers cheerily. "And we need to fix the world again."

_Again?_ One part of John thinks, alarmed at the casual tone. The other part is perking up at the mention, bemoaning about how it's needed a good adventure, but no such thing has happened since he returned to England.

And suddenly, John is in the phone box, the man striding past him purposefully, ignoring how the soldier gapes at the impossibilities inside. "But – but – that's –"

"Bigger on the inside!" the Doctor exclaims, throwing switches and pulling levers on the huge console in the center of the impossibly big room. "Yes, I do get that quite a bit."

John gapes for a moment longer, then snaps his mouth shut, deciding to wait it out. Either it was real, or a damn realistic hallucination brought on by a combination of his medicines and lack of proper food. Time would tell, he was sure. "So, what was that about fixing the world?"

The Doctor grins at him briefly before turning back to the controls. "Same old John," he chuckled. "Right to the heart of the matter." John raised an eyebrow (he was certain he had never met the Doctor before), but waited for the man to continue. "Someone's been playing with Time without my consent," he clarified.

"People need to clear it with you before playing with…Time?"

"_Well_, not really, but I'd prefer it if they did, since most of them have no clue what they're doing and then I have to clean up their messes."

John dearly wished to ask how many times, exactly, people screwed with Time outside of the movies, but managed to keep that to himself, asking instead, "And what does this have to do with me?"

"Everything!" Seeing the look on John's face, the Doctor hastened to add. "No, no, you didn't mess everything up, don't worry. Rather, someone messed up _your_ life, and now you've never met Sherlock Holmes."

"Wait," John frowned, "That detective bloke who died a few weeks ago? What've I got to do with him?"

"Once you help me fix this gloopy, gluey mess, all the memories will come back to you," the Doctor grinned. "Now, John Watson, what do you know about a man named Moriarty and his experiments with Time?"

000

**Remember to review! This is a oneshot for now, but I might expand it later on, when I have more time on my hands.**


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